


Small Room, One Bed

by usuallyfunctioning



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Developing Relationship, Fluff, Johnlock Fluff, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, One Shot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 07:13:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1770289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usuallyfunctioning/pseuds/usuallyfunctioning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This didn’t mean anything, sleeping together—not sleeping together, just… sleeping in the same bed. This didn't declare that John had feelings for his gorgeous flatmate. No, of course not. Maybe. </p><p>Wait, what?</p><p>John just needed sleep. That was it. So, with stiff movements and a generous amount of throat-clearing, John slid into bed next to Sherlock. <br/>~~</p><p>John Watson and Sherlock Holmes are spending the night in Baskerville in the only hotel room left. With only one bed. John is finding it difficult to remain only platonically attracted to the consulting detective sleeping next to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small Room, One Bed

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, Everyone! This is just a cute, fluffy Johnlock fanfic that takes place during Hounds of Baskerville. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it! And please review or critique, it makes me smile (:

The hotel room had only one bed. It struck John as they stood in the doorway. Yeah, the pub owners said it was all that was left. John said fine. Now he realized what exactly one bed meant... 

It meant.  
Well.  
One bed.

Sherlock and John would have to share a bed. Sleep... in the same bed as one another. John didn't know how to feel about that. No, scratch that. He knew exactly how he felt about that. 

Pretty bloody awkward. 

Sherlock strolled into the room. "Small," he said, spinning around to fully assess their space. His coat twirled. 

"Yeah, I got that, Sherlock. Thanks.” John rubbed the back of his neck. "They said it was the only one available."

Sherlock nodded. "I guess it'll have to do... What's the matter, John?" A pause. His eyes lifted towards John, then back to the bed. Towards John once more. An 'ah' of understanding escaped his parted lips. 

"Yeah." 

"Surely you can't be that bothered by such sleeping conditions for a single night. You were an army soldier, John."

John was glad Sherlock was focused on rummaging through the contents of his small case instead of noticing the faint flush that rose to John's cheeks. "No, I didn't mean it like that, it's just—“

"Just what?" Sherlock tilted his head and his eyes met John's, calculating. Always deducing. 

"Just... nothing." John shrugged it off and sighed. "No big deal. I'm gonna wash up, then. Don't go running off."

Furrowed eyebrows and narrowed eyes followed John Watson's every move until the bathroom door shut behind him. Rarely was Sherlock perplexed. 

Only John had that sort of power over him.

By the time John re-entered the room, Sherlock was pajama-clad and under the hotel duvet. Sherlock never slept. Why start now? The question was burning a hole through the back of John’s head. “Sherlock?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock rolled over to face him.

“You don’t sleep.” John crossed his arms over his chest.

“Yes I do.”

A sigh. “No, you really don’t.”

Sherlock rolled onto his back. “Alright, fine. Usually I don’t sleep. But what on earth do you expect me to do all night here? Are there experiments for me to work on? I’d end up more bored awake than I would sleeping,” He spoke to John as if the middle aged ex-military doctor were some daft, bumbling, toddler. Insulting. 

John waited only a heartbeat before nodding. “Fair enough.” This isn’t so strange, he assured himself. Just two blokes having to share the same bed, because they’re on a last minute work-related trip and could only get one bloody room.

Nothing strange. 

This didn’t mean anything, sleeping together—not sleeping together, just… sleeping in the same bed. This didn't declare that John had feelings for his gorgeous flatmate. No, of course not. Maybe. 

Wait, what?

John just needed sleep. That was it. So, with stiff movements and a generous amount of throat-clearing, John slide into bed next to Sherlock. 

And laid there.

And didn’t move. 

Or breathe.

Okay, he breathed a little, but barely. He was strangely, incredibly nervous. Nervous anticipation? Of what? No. No, he was not anticipating anything while sharing a bed with Sherlock.  
 Was he?

Sherlock was sleeping now, John was sure of it. Deep breaths, still eyelids, lack of any movement besides the rise and fall of his chest under a soft, worn grey t-shirt. 

That t-shirt looked soft, so very soft. John wanted to run his fingers along it. Because it looked soft, definitely not because a still, sleeping, beautiful Sherlock was wearing it. Beautiful? He meant… platonically handsome. 

So John Watson, who was definitely straight, reached out his left hand and set it over Sherlock Holme’s heart.

Soft t-shirt…

He could feel the heat from Sherlock’s body seeping into his fingertips. Please don’t wake up. He could feel the murmuring heartbeat that proved Sherlock was alive. Living. Human. Capable of love? Please don’t wake up. John inhaled and exhaled in sync with Sherlock’s sleeping form. 

Probably the most intimate thing he’d done, this. And Sherlock wasn’t even awake. Was this cheating? 

John pulled back his hand and allowed himself to readjust a bit. He curled over onto his side: uncomfortable. Tried the other: bothered his shoulder. He stretched out a bit: no, too risky he’d touch Sherlock in his sleep. Curled to one side again—

“Would you just lie still?” Sherlock whispered. 

John stilled. “You were asleep…”

“I was thinking.”

“So you were awake?” John murmured, a flash of panic consuming him.

“Yes, John. I was thinking.”

“Oh.” 

Cue a long and tense and awkward silence. Sherlock wondered if John had fallen asleep. John wondered if Sherlock had fallen asleep. 

The deep rumble of a voice filled the space between them. “I don’t mind.” A soft, deep, rumbling whisper of a voice. Like distant thunder. Oh, Sherlock.

“You-“ John began. 

“I really don’t mind.” 

John nodded, forgetting that the room was dark. Pitch black. His voice was hesitant, wary, “So you don’t mind if…” John rolled over to Sherlock. Slowly and cautiously. He slid a hand across Sherlock’s lean stomach, curling at his hip. He rested his head on Sherlock’s chest. Because his t-shirt was soft, of course. That was why. 

“John,” Sherlock breathed. 

Silence again, but good silence. Fantastic silence. 

Warm.  
Comforting.  
Tender.  
Anticipated. 

Soft. 

I love you rested on John’s lips, but he didn’t dare say it. But it was true. But he couldn’t. But he had to. But he couldn’t.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked. 

John could hear Sherlock’s voice through his chest. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You… you’re making the face,” Sherlock declared. 

“A face? What face?” John asked. Sherlock was looking at him. Why did butterflies appear in his stomach? Sherlock looked at John all the time… this didn’t mean anything.

But they were cuddling in the same bed. Surely that meant something.

Sherlock sighed, and John decided he liked listening to Sherlock’s heart. “The face you make when you’re thinking. Really thinking. It’s an obvious face.”

“Oh.” 

“What are you thinking about?” Sherlock murmured. 

“Nothing.” I love you.

“Neither am I,” Sherlock agreed. I love you, too.

John cleared his throat a bit. “Well… good night then, Sherlock.” Don’t leave me.

Sherlock opened his mouth,  
closed it,  
paused,  
and opened it again. “Good night, John.” I wouldn’t ever.


End file.
